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THE DRYAD'S LAST STAND 



By VICTORIA ELISABETH GITTINGS, Baltimore, Md. 



\VINTRY nights, when weird and eerie 



Clouds fly swiftly o'er the moon; 

 When the wind howls mad and dreary, 

 Then drops sadly to a croon ; 



Stir we restless in our dreams : 

 Something in the air there seems. 

 II 



Not broom-mounted witches riding 

 To their Sabbats, whip and spur ; 

 Neither elves the morning biding; 

 Nor lost souls, as some aver. 

 'Tis the Dryads of the trees, 

 Worshipped long in ancient Greece. 

 Ill 

 Swaying, rythmic as their tree-tops. 



Wringing hands so slim and fair. 

 Loud they mourn the land of Cecrops — 

 For their homes were sacred there. 

 ''What can we poor Dryads do? 

 With our woods, they slay us too !" 



IV 



Recently they held a meeting 



Weighty was the theme discussed ; 

 Anxiously they kept repeating 



That preserve their trees they must. 

 "Man has proved our deadly foe ; 

 Either he or we must go !" 



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"Through the land is heard the droning 

 Of the forest guillotine." 

 Here a deep and dirge-like moaning, 

 Answered from the nymphs in green : 

 "Vain in council are we met ; 

 Man is on destruction set." 



VI 



Then a Hamadryad older. 



Wiser far than all the rest. 

 Cushioned on a lichened boulder. 

 Silenced them, and thus addressed: 



"Wood-nymphs all, be still, attend ; 

 Hear me patient to the end ! 



VII 



"True it is that mortals doom us. 

 All to perish from the land. 

 Strong enough they to entomb us ; 

 Weak indeed is our small band. 



But restrain your grief and see 

 Whether man the gainer be. > 



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